


I Know About Popular

by Brice_Gottlieb



Category: Original Work, Red vs. Blue
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Cussing, Gratuitous Amounts of Headcanons, Medical Experimentation, Military Training, Multi, Multiple Reference Drops, Rivalry, RvB Callbacks, transgender character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brice_Gottlieb/pseuds/Brice_Gottlieb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what evolves out of sleepless nights and too much ambition. </p><p>The cast of RvB, retired to Earth and out of action (for the most part), sit back as their prodigies take up the family legacy. Training in the military takes a courage and inner strength few have, and if the physical drills don't heighten dropout rates, the medical enhancements are sure to give cold feet. </p><p>Grim Grif-Simmons, son and serendipitous medical mishap of Pvt. Dexter Grif and Capt. Dick Simmons, is assigned the name Grim-499 and thrown in among friends and strangers alike. Quickly forming a rivalry with fan-favorite Makoa-518, Grim has to prove he's worthy of the armor he wears, of the rank he carries, long before he can revisit Blood Gulch and protect the Earth from forces of evil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We Go Two By Two

**Author's Note:**

> Almost everyone mentioned at length is an OC, so if that doesn't float boats, don't bother to read. If you're cool with it, I tried to make each one as interesting and developed as possible before even attempting to write all this down.

There's a certain charm to getting lost. Entertainment, even.

 

If it hadn't been for the multiple Skirmishers and two Hunters, the two-man Spartan team may have considered it a field trip. Now they were off course and panting softly after the brutish battle. All around them, nothing but crisping brown grasses and overlarge stones marked their location. Not a noticeable landmark in sight. 

 

The Aqua Spartan managed to sit heavily on a fallen boulder. His bullpup rifle was set gingerly to the side as he caught his breath, elbows on knees. Every movement implied discomfort on his part, but his training held firm and he did not show his weakness. Instead, he observed his teammate, a Gold Spartan. The soldier had stayed on his feet and wandered ahead, seemingly lost in his thoughts as he glancing about the canyon and its craggy walls, as if a pathway would open up to them. Aqua gathered his strength and stood after only a few seconds' respite. As he joined his comrade, the height difference between them became incredibly obvious, so much so that Aqua had to look down in order to address Gold.

 

"Are you sure this is the waypoint Command sent?" he puffed, trying to maintain some semblance of schooled neutrality to his voice. 

 

Gold's noise of uncertainty was sinful to Aqua's conformed training. "I'm guesstimating," Gold explained with nonchalance, "This is all part of the plan, I swear."

 

Resisting the temptation to throw his hands up in defeat, Aqua glanced about for any kind of clue. Command wouldn't send them without direction; it was far more likely Gold hadn't been paying attention and, as usual, he'd be picking up the slack while Gold fumbled in the dark. Nothing around them seemed out of place. Nothing moved in the canyon. The large sun-star was beginning to set over this world, casting everything in a shade of coral and umber as the iron-rich soil picked up light. Gold's armor was reflecting as well, that shine slipping away as the Spartan found a tunnel-like cavern in the shade of the canyon. Gritting his teeth, Aqua made no attempt to call out or stop him, mentally berating his choice in partner before following Gold. 

 

The sandstone of the cavern left little hidden. Their path was smooth, carved away by some long ago river flowing out to the sea. Aqua kept his weapon at the ready anyway, even as his surroundings became all too familiar. As Gold trekked ahead, the tunnel opened into a vast field as far as Aqua could see. An weary old base loomed nearby, its structure weathered and yet it cast an impressive shadow. Gold paused to survey the space, hands propped against his hips. His helm may have hidden it, but a grin was clear in his voice. 

 

"See?" Gold called back, "I knew we wouldn't be off track for long. Man, this takes us back, huh?" Aqua neared, but never replied.

 

The muzzle of the bullpup rifle nudged the back of his head. 

 

 

Gold groaned softly. The happiness in his voice left as quickly as Gold spun round, wrenching the battle rifle from Aqua's hands. Or at least trying to. His efforts were not without consequence; Aqua was ready for the attempt. Gold reared back as Aqua swung his weapon. The bullets hit hard-packed ground as Aqua fired, but his opponent was already on the move. He hit low, toppling the giant Spartan with all his might. Aqua braced for blows. None came. He rolled, carrying Gold with him until they were reversed. From there, the hits met Gold's guarding forearms. He wasn't fighting, Aqua realized as he panted hard behind his visor, not even struggling to get out of the situation. 

 

"Come on!" he bellowed, wary of Gold's intent. "Fight back!"

 

"This is bullshit, Tuck, and you know it!"

 

 

The simulation around them flickered and died with Aqua's resolve. His fists dropped, teeth grinding audibly over the radio as he got off Gold's stomach. "It's bullshit," Gold muttered, sitting up with effort as he tried catching the breath Aqua -- Tuck -- had knocked out of him. Tuck's fingers fumbled at the line of his neck, releasing his helmet. The sound echoed in the enormous room, now an empty shell. 

 

Gold sighed. Blood Gulch had been so close.

 

Tuck's hand came into his line of sight (two fingers, two thumbs) and Gold took the offer silently. He'd caused enough trouble he knew, but a thought egged at his mind. As he wrenched his helmet off, Tuck's brilliantly intelligent eyes trained on his actions, pupils still thin slits as the adrenaline faded."This was supposed to be a recon mission," Gold hissed, "What the fuck did Command--?"

 

 

"Grim-499!"

 

 

"You fucked up," Tuck murmured under breath. He snapped easily to attention, bistre skin dotted with tracks of sweat and a paleness to his cheeks that described his physical pain.

 

"What does it matter?" Grim replied, "I was boned the second they threw me in here." He sidled lazily up to Tuck's side, helm resting at his thigh as Gunnery Sergeant Conners neared with the anger of an understated storm cloud. The holodeck echoed with his footfalls, and when they stopped, Conners was barely up to Grim's chest. It never failed to make the gold Spartan trainee smile, though for Tuck's sake, he tried smothering it. 

 

"Tucker-500 was given explicit orders, Grim. _Explicit_ , do you know what that means, boy?" he barked, and Grim replied smoothly.

 

"Stated clearly and in detail, leaving no room for confusion or doubt. _Sir_."

 

"He had explicit orders not to let you survive that simulation. He did as told while you wandered about, and if that wasn't bad enough, you didn't defend yourself!" Conners shouted while Grim cast his gaze off to the side, avoiding the worst of the confrontation. "You're a dead man standing right now, rookie. Why did you not _defend_ yourself in a betrayal simulation, Grim-499?"

 

"Because, with all due respect, Gunny, I will repeat myself: this is bullshit." Tuck's glanced down at Conners, testing the reaction as Grim spoke. "Tucker-500 is given nearly every betrayal simulation under the guise of multiple training exercises. I understand that preparation for the conflict within the team is essential, Sir, but Command is giving the role of betrayer to a man of Sangheili ancestry over eighty percent of the time. That's not _preparing_ rookies, Sir, that's making them wary of those _different_ than them."

 

Conners paused at Grim's resolve. A rare sight, but Grim was if anything to Tuck it was devoted. Apparently not even Command could stand in the way of that. 

 

"Back to your bunk. The both of you." Conners said sternly, watching Grim closely as the rookies bypassed him for the exit. Lavernius Tucker Junior, all seven foot ten of him, bowed with the sigh of relief he breathed once a corridor away from their Sergeant and out of eyesight. 

 

 

Chuckling, Grim shoved him upright. The grin over his lips brought a smile to Tuck's, and the two made a beeline for the bunkhouse. "My hero," Tuck simpered, a yawn catching him and stretching his jaw wide, impossibly wide for any human. It passed soon, however, and Grim was shaking his head. "You were struggling in there," he replied with ease, "and you're shit at hand-to-hand. I could have bested you and gotten to showers by lunch, but I noticed." Dark eyes like black cherries cast a glance over Tuck's slouched form. "It's the Carbide Ceramic again, huh?"

 

"Still hurts sometimes," Tuck agreed, though reluctant to say much more on the subject. 

 

 

Grim had known Tuck all his life. Back in Blood Gulch, while their fathers still fought the war, they'd sneak away from their respective sides to share rations and play-fight. Birthdays came with the rare treat of soda or a candy bar, but they always shared with one another. Tuck was the main reason Grim had signed up for the Spartans, anyway. He couldn't let someone else watch his best friend's back, not while Grim was still capable to do it himself. As it stood, getting inducted for Tuck was hard enough. You try being half Sangheili. The physical differences alone gave most officers pause, but Tuck proved himself capable and well on the way to Private. If Grim kept his nose clean, they'd be graduating in no time.

 

The bunkhouse was mostly empty, a few youthful men and women lingering around sleeping pods, most in fatigues or stripping out of armor while chatting in low tones. Grim tossed his helmet on Bunk 499, sitting alongside it as Tuck hurried to get out of the custom suit. Long hands (two fingers, two thumbs) stretched wide when free of armored gloves, feet doing the same (two overlarge toes) as the boots hit the floor. Digitigrade legs reached and turned carefully at Tuck's will, a low groan of pain escaping while doing so. Grim's eyes fell to his own armor, and silently began removing it. 

 

Sharp teeth were bared as Tuck pushed and guided his jaw to a loud popping sound, the flexible musculature working visibly. One of the Sangheili traits, the quadruple mandibles, had thankfully passed over Tuck and allowed him a bit of grace in the presence of his higher ups. The result was a convincing human facial appearance with very snake-like traits. His nose, wide and flat, hid an incredible sense of smell. His eyes were the striking blue of a winter sky as it made you snowblind, slit pupils giving every expression away. A guy like that made Grim's own appearance seem commonplace: russet hair, sorrel eyes, all of six foot and still average. Hawaii's sun still hadn't left his skin in the eight months of training, and yet he still couldn't get rid of the freckles.

 

Both of them slipped into fatigues without a word. Grim smiled as Tuck gave the air a sniff. 

 

"Ugh, _Grim_ , take a shower would you?" he complained, "I can barely smell lunch over you." 

 

Grim threw his pillow ("Fuck you, too," he teased) and the duo laughed their way out of the bunkhouse, only food in mind.


	2. Nerd Alert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon Church and Caboose: http://40.media.tumblr.com/c92e20a9bec4e8f4f05902fb71e2b404/tumblr_ndq9vq0QQS1snx3i4o1_500.png
> 
> Credit to churboose.tumblr. com

The cacophony of sound did nothing but fuel the comradery of the hundred fifty in attendance. Like most of their surroundings, the dining hall was sleek and sheen with stainless steel. Order was broken by the rookies milling about tables to trade contraband and exchange words. It was like high school all over again, Grim thought fondly, except everyone had impressive biceps and the training of a Spartan. Everyone had a name and a number. Everyone was a rookie, equal to one another. Splashes of color stood out in the crowd, usually matching armor color: bottle dyed red hair, the sage green of a woman's religious head wear, a cobalt armband, a maroon over-shirt. Men and women of youthful ages, all willing to fight for the chance at being shipped out for battle for their cause.

 

Tuck cut a clear path through the most of them with his height. A few called out to him, others nodded. It was well known that Tuck held claim on the top ten recruits. Good standing with any of the top ten couldn't hurt and usually meant an easier road getting assigned in the long run, but never guaranteed much. Once promoted to private, the upstanding elite chose their teams for a new life at needy bases, which was plush living compared to frontline battle. Getting this kind of treatment a lot, Tuck only replied to their calls with a gracious nod. 

 

Grim split from Tuck's side to dodge the crowd, headed for a figure seated near the center of the dining hall. Sitting hunched, he was clearly hiding something of value from those around him. He maintained impeccable focus over his possession, tray of food long ignored, bouncing his legs restlessly by the fronts of his booted feet. It wasn't normal. Grim took the chance and pounced.

 

 

Abram-510, better known to Grim as Abram Church, jumped visibly as hands clapped down on his shoulders. A shoebox toppled out of his lap and fright influenced his already jumpy movement, knees slamming into the steel of the table. The resulting sound was loud enough to be heard over nearby conversations, but heads hardly turned. Abram hissed lowly, rubbing the affected area while Grim laughed. 

 

"Goddammit, Grim," Abram muttered. He ducked under the table to right the dropped box before any of the contents could be seen. Taking a seat opposite, Grim's smile disarmed any complaint Abram may have had as he righted himself. "Mail?" Grim questioned lightly, trying to peer into the box as it was set on the tabletop. "I haven't got any mail; what day is it?"

 

"Saturday," Abram said crossly, "Maybe if you actually wrote, you could get packages and replies."

 

"Eh, anything I'd get from home would just make me want to go back," he muttered, thoughts already drifting back to Hawaii. "Pictures of Dad on the beach like a bum...Dad's barbecues...white chocolate macadamia cookies..."

 

Abram shook his head, wondering (not for the first time) how Grim told his parents apart in casual conversation when they were both addressed as Dad. The lonesome lunch tray, barely touched, was pulled close as Abram's hand disappeared into his shoebox and return, depositing a pair foil-wrapped treats onto an empty corner of the steel plate. "No way," Grim hissed, his interest peaked as Abram pushed the tray his way. 

 

"Mom sent them, said to share." Abram pulled a small sheaf of lined paper from the box and began to read in his previous hunched pose. Quickly pocketing the Hershey's Kisses, Grim swept a hand through the box, snagging an included photo. He never saw the Church family much outside of Team Get-Togethers. Moon, Pennsylvania wasn't exactly a short drive from Hawaii, after all. The duo looked about the same as they ever did: Mr. Church's hair was speckled with grey and streaked at the temples, little over a head in height shorter than Caboose, still cheerful and gangling. One smiled brightly while the other spared only the slightest of smirks. The forested backyard beyond them already had Grim missing Earth. 

 

Tuck slipped into the seat beside him, a tray of his own set down before he was taking the photo from Grim's fingers. "Oh, man..." he chuckled, "Your dad is actually smiling in this one. That's new!" Abram passed him a set of Kisses for the photos' safe return. Grim started in on his food as Abram spoke, eyes on the letter.

 

 

"They're thinking of having another Get-Together next month. Or, well,  _this_ month," he corrected, flashing the date to the top of the letter for Tuck to see. Mail carriers took forever to get their way... "Dad's planning it." Tapered fingers found their way to his mouth, picking his teeth out of habit more than necessity. 

 

"I don't think they've ever had a Get-Together without us," Tuck input thoughtfully, "It must be interesting." Humming around his fork, Grim agreed.

 

He thought back to the photo and glanced up at Abram. Back in Blood Gulch, he'd been the baby of the group. Strange as it sounded, no one even really had proof as to why he existed. Tuck was a parasitic embryo, Grim himself had been a medical mishap, but Abram...he'd just been born. Everyone lived life as normal until Caboose had started swelling up and only offered the excuse that he 'caught the pregnancy' from Tucker Sr. Nine months later, Abram was part of the world and very much legitimate as  _multiple_ DNA tests proved. He was a near perfect conglomerate of both parents: his mother's build with his father's height, his father's wide nose and his mother's sooty black hair. Even down to his eyes, Abram sported the deep brown of a stout ale, but a sizable section of brown had been replaced by a pale blue. 

 

 

Those eyes trained on Grim now, giving the rookie pause as Abram spoke behind fingers. "You got rec time after this?" 

 

"Nah, I promised Joan I'd run the track with her," he replied, making quick work of spearing slices of potato through once-powdered cheese. "What's she need time for?" Tuck asked incredulously, "She's already second in the top listing; not even I can beat her on foot."

 

Abram snorted softly. "Run the track: more like Let-Joan-Sprint-Circles-Around-Me."

 

Waving them all off with his fork, Grim smiled around a mouthful of au gratin potatos. "Anyway," Abram continued, "You should hit up The Pits. And write your Dads before the ship leaves. I mean it, they'll appreciate hearing more from you."

 

Grim groaned dramatically, quickly unwrapping chocolate and whining as he chewed. 

 

"Really, Grim?" Tuck asked humorously as Abram gathered his things. Box in hand, he stood from the table with a wrinkle of the nose. "Tuck," he added before leaving, "Make sure he gets a shower. He'll start to mold soon."

 

"Oh, suck it," muttered Grif sourly, but a good humored grin was already plucking at his features.


	3. All Roads Lead To Rouge

Color and wonder had never existed as it did inside the television. In any format, any genre, there never ceased to be a wealth of entertainment and luxe of information seeping from that box. Not all of it was morally good, nor were the laws of physics always adhered to. There were often times that Joseph, with a budding new sense of human emotion, came away from the television confused to the point of tears or inconsolably terrified. He always returned, though. Knowledge couldn't stop simply because the brain willed its fears against it. 

 

 

David was just sitting down to meet Doctor Know (for the 2,947th time, according to a mental tally) when Mother came in and turned the television off. Joseph blinked heavily before turning his attention to the retired Spartan in a patterned apron. Mother's smile was genuine, pleasant in the way it curved, even against the spidery scarring near the top of his jaw. Joseph returned the grin. A hand brushing over the smoothness of Joseph's head, Mother chuckled and spoke in wonder. 

 

"I can't see how such old films are interesting," he stated, "That movie is from the turn of the millennium. I'm surprised you haven't busted it just from all the times you play it."

 

Joseph could only shrug. Having heard the same on multiple occasions, he'd run out of excuses past the fact that it was simply made enjoyable. Mother made a motion as if to follow and Joseph rose from the couch with vigor. 

 

 

He'd always found his Mother's cooking to be fantastic, almost as entertaining to watch as the television. He never had the stomach for the finished product (literally) but the process itself was enrapturing. As he watched, Mother began dusting the wood-topped counters with flour. It didn't take much more than that to get Joseph in motion. Biscuits were a common food source in the house. He'd be taught early how to make them, all kinds, always with Mother's supervision. He'd never needed more than this: the homely kitchen, the over-plush living room, the strict order of the garage, the comforts of the bedrooms, and the cleanly shine of the bath. This house had forever been a sanctuary of learning. Today would be as perfect as any other. With this in mind, Joseph slipped his puppy-patterned apron over his head. 

 

Together, they rolled out dough. Side by side, Joseph watched his Mother work. His left hand, much like the right of his face, was pinched with scar tissue yet still viable. The strength of his arms never left since those fabled days of war, pressing and kneading, nails trimmed neat and uniformly, his sleeves rolled with care. From the force of rolling dough to the gentle sprinkling of poppy seeds, Mother displayed his skills. Joseph again wondered at the marvel of humanity and everything they stood for. Mother simply passed him a cookie cutter and Joseph set to work. 

 

He pressed as many biscuits from the sheet of warm dough as possible, smiling all the while. The quiet between them was broken by the occasional sifting of ingredients, the chopping of a knife, running water from the sink. Joseph was thankful for his olfactory sense, as he always was come supper time. The oven beeped twice, perfectly tempered to cook with. Mother placed a waxed paper and tray before him. Both sets of hands transferred Joseph's hard work onto it, sometimes bumping one another by accident and laughing softly. Chicken soup was bubbling away on the stove while Mother secured oven mitts over Joseph's hands, entrusting him to put the biscuits in the oven. 

 

 

Twelve minutes counted down in the back of Joseph's mind, even as he set to new tasks. Mother handled the sharp things. Celery was handed to Joseph in a bunch to be shorn of their leafy tops. As he did, his eyes tracked Mother with thoughts of Father. Father had made his eyes specially for Mother, one of her favorite shades (#FFB3DE, his mind described, and ten minutes nine seconds left on the clock). He had knowledge of Mother's happiest expressions the day he was introduced to her, of birthdays spent as a family at the supper table. He also had knowledge of the bad times, of Father's worries and Mother's aches, and the ever looming knowledge that the television had taught about mortality. But it would be alright for a while yet. The leaves were crisp as they fell away, Mother becoming all the more visible through them as the carrots were cut evenly at his hand. Such wonderful grace, Joseph thought to himself, and pooled the leaves at the counter. 

 

An onion rolled its way from Mother's hand along the counter to his, and Joseph peeled it slowly. Five minutes forty-seven seconds, he prompted himself mindfully. Plenty of time to complete this task. The onion was removed of its browned outer shell, and Mother received its pale inner parts, an asymmetrical sphere. She smiled widely at him in thanks. Perhaps now would be the best time...

 

"Mother," Joseph began in his soft tone, "may I...inquire something of you?"

 

Mother paused for only a moment. Not a bad sign, he presumed. "Like what?" he replied, letting the knife glide easily once more. 

 

"You're male, Mother. And yet I've been calling you Mother for years. Does this mean you are transgender?"

 

Again, the knife paused. "Where did you hear this, Joe?" he asked, turning to give his son full attention. The oven mittens were suddenly a bit more attention grabbing, as Joseph began fiddling with them and slipping them over his hands. 

 

"On television. There was a documentary, a study. I began to see you took more socially feminine roles and...I decided to question."

 

Glancing to the side, Mother worried him for a brief second, but that smile was there once more. A huff of laughter passed through the air. Three minutes, twelve seconds. 

 

"No, Joe." Mother replied gently, once again teaching his son, as he always did since the day Joseph was built. "I'm a man, and your father is a man. You know this." At ease, Mother took up the knife again, slicing through the onion now. "We're not exactly a normal family. But there are many families in the universe, on  _all kinds_ of different planets, and not all of them are alike." Joseph nodded in understanding, at ease as he went to the oven. The door was warm, the dough inside cooked to perfection. As he spoke, he pulled the door open. 

 

"Mother," he began again. The smile could be heard in the voice that replied, "Yes?"

 

"What if..." Joseph paused, pulling the tray from the rack. "What if I were--"

 

 

There was a clatter as the tray fell from Joseph's hands. In his nervousness, he'd shut the oven door too soon and bumped the tray's edge, breaking the comfort like ice and sending precious biscuits rolling over the tiled floor. Mother was at his side in an instant, eyes roaming Joseph for any sign of injury. Although they were both visibly shaken by the sudden sound, Mother put on a small grin and put his hands to Joseph's face. "It's okay," he murmured soothingly, nodding, "they're just biscuits. Let's pick them up, okay?" 

 

Joseph mimicked his Mother's nod, setting the tray upon the floor. They bent in unison, hands quickly plucking up the hot rolls and tossing them lightly back on the tray. "What if," Joseph continued boldly, eyes on his task, "What if I were a woman?"

 

Mother stopped short, and Joseph quickly grabbed up the last fallen biscuit. It hit the tray with little care. Mother wasn't saying anything. He didn't dare check for a smile, feeling on the verge of confusion and regret. Human emotions were such troublesome things...

 

But those hands took Joseph by the face once more, pressing lightly and urging Joseph to raise his head. There was sincerity and a heady amount of reassurance in Mother's voice, said from lips that were upturned to perfection. Suddenly, Joseph felt a _glimmer_ of what he could only assume was the depth of love Father felt for Mother. 

 

"That's okay, too." He said simply, and it always would be.

 

 

 

 

 

Joan looked up from tying her shoe at the sound of Grim calling her name, and a picturesque smile came to her face. The track was utterly empty for once, but the idiot was waving as if he had to catch her attention in a crowd. Tightening the knot in her laces, Joan stood from the bench and trotted up to the track. "Ready to eat my dust?" Grim taunted jokingly, meeting her at the starting line.

 

"Just a minute," she replied wittily, "I'll have to turn off my olfactory. I don't want to smell  _that_ as I do laps around you."

 

Their good-natured banter echoed about the room.


	4. The Pits

Base had plenty of locations to train the body, the mind, and hone skills that were ingrained into their way of life. The Grounds housed the training course that many rookies dread. Martial arts were practiced in large open rooms, usually between rookies and a Private or two stationed on base. Enclosed rooms affectionately dubbed Hell's Hotel were mostly avoided, but when in use provided the utter chaos of battle and challenged one's composure and discipline. Mental strengths were on display through the medical bay and in randomized team drills. There were weight rooms and the track, firing ranges, and any one of the many holodecks provided an endless array of simulated missions that would be required of them.

 

And then there was The Pit. 

 

 

Like the Colosseum of Earth, The Pit was ringed by rookies, Privates, and all manner of higher-ups. Below them fought any from two to a dozen Spartans. The Pit was a favorite of Gunny Conners. To throw two squabbling rookies into the ring was entertainment for all involved, and it wasn't uncommon for one to leave on a stretcher. Popularity and respect was won in The Pit, deals were made and debts were settled. Trust and bonds were formed, and above all, you learned who to watch out for. 

 

Fresh from the showers, Grim circled the ragged edges of the growing crowd. Abram had directed him here with good intention. Chants for the victor rose up, muffling all with their calls. The name was united in all mouths: Makoa. Grim cast a glance into The Pit and there she was. 

 

Makoa the Hero, Makoa the First, top of the charts and best in the field though a little short for a Spartan. Her opponent was already leaving The Pit in forfeit, holding tightly to his arm. So this was what Abram called him to, Grim thought idly, watching with neutrality as another took arms against her. Makoa was known to be cold, analytic, and observant. Even now, her eyes were sweeping this new opponent to pinpoint his weak stance and haughty nature. It was no contest. 

 

Grim himself had come close to matching Makoa in The Pit, but that was long months ago. The woman practically lived in the dojo, perfecting her martial arts and hand to hand skills. Her Coral shaded armor was at the head of many team-building exercises. Word around base was she should have been shipped off as a Private First Class a year ago, but preferred the additional training. As Makoa swept the feet from under her opponent, Grim left The Pit's edge. He refused to watch more of the one-sided battle. His rival wouldn't have the glory of seeing him watch her talent, not until Grim could defeat Makoa himself.

 

He walked away briskly, leaving the chanting of his peers far behind him.

 

 


	5. Homebound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many ways to remember Home.

Abram's hand touched Grim's knee lightly in passing, jostling the man from his reverie. The notebook feel slack in his grip, drooping just far enough to see Abram take refuge at the end of Bunk 499. There was a tired haze to his eyes. Taking notice, Grim made what little room he had on the mattress and allowed the younger rookie to lay out.

 

All throughout their childhood, Abram had been known to cuddle. Winters were cold in Blood Gulch, it wasn't uncommon for the young ones to share a warm bed or a fresh cooked meal out of their parents rations. In the warmer months, they lazed about in groups, digging in the dirt and basking in the sunlight. Grim could remember the long week spent preparing to finally leave Installation 04 for Sol System. It had been a draining time for their parents, and in the midst of it all, the three of them trying to come to terms that they were officially 'moving'. The time spent aboard the ship was lost upon Grim, simply spending many hours with Tuck and Abram while slowly being introduced to Sol System's gravity and pressures. Earth only proved more complex. The Spartans had been shipped off as eight soldiers only to return eight soldiers and three unregistered 'proteges'. It had taken a lot of time before Grim truly understood how close they'd come to simply losing Tuck. 

 

Even now, Abram stretched out to his fullest and cling quickly to Grim's side, brow burrowing against his shoulder. Abram was chilled and smelled like the medical bay, like harsh soaps and antibacterial. He was known to spend most of his free time learning the medical field. Grim crinkled his nose at the scent, but allowed the touch. He was familiar and that was a stark difference in comparison to the rest of the base, even with eight months of training under his belt. Abram at his side reminded him of warm mornings on Blood Gulch, of Get-Togethers on Hawaii's beaches, the warm ocean licking their toes as sandy fingers curled in the sunbaked Earth. Nothing had ever mattered then.

 

Abram was already drifting. Pliant, Abram's fingers tightened in Grim's shirt, arms strong with new muscle as they held fast, and Grim took up his pen and paper once more, writing his family in comfort. 

 

 

 

The night dragged on in peace. Not long after dinner hour, the recruits fell back to the Bunkhouse, a lull of content voices and full-bellied relaxation. Tuck was among the mass, falling silently into Bunk 500 with a fond glance at Abram. No doubt he, too, remembered the long nights of childhood at Abram's side. The lights shut out at schedule and Grim fished out a penlight to hold between his teeth. The pages written piled on his lap as Abram snoozed away. 

 

The sound of boots coming down the hall gave Grim pause. Concerned, he quickly switched off the penlight and hid it under the lip of his bedsheets. There were only two options when it came to midnight visits: Gunny Conners was out for some poor rookie's blood, or the Medical Bay would have fresh subjects. With little to do for Abram, Grim simply sunk to a prone position in his bunk to watch the hall and hoped Conners wasn't looking for him. 

 

Three Hospital Corpsmen of various ranks took the appropriate routes, looking at charts and bypassing the unneeded. A sinking dread came over Grim, scribbling the last few lines down on his paper before one came his way. The Corpsman, Third Class judging by his armband, lingered at the foot of his bunk, looking between Grim, Abram in the bunk with him, and Tuck sleeping in his own bunk not four feet away. There was a loud ripping sound as Grim pulled the page from its binding, adding it to the stack already on his lap. "You're needed in Medical," the Corpsman said patiently, but Grim was already nodding wordlessly before he finished.

 

Shaking Abram awake, Grim pulled apart. The younger man appeared confused for a minute as his hands were filled with the long letter. He blanched slightly at the sight of the Corpsman above them. His hand shot out instinctively, gripping Grim's shirt, but was easily pried off in his sleep addled state. "Just mail that for me," Grim said softly, squeezing Abram's hand lightly, "okay? Promise me you'll put it in before the ship leaves."

 

Abram nodded solemnly, his hand falling as Grim left with the Corpsman. Behind him, Tuck's eyes opened slowly, his own hearts thrumming in time with one another. Under his steady blue gaze, Abram waited until the remaining Corpsmen took their subjects (Makoa, who marched ahead of her officer defiantly, and a burly rookie Abram knew from the medical bay, but had no name for) before sitting up in Grim's bunk. Taking up the discarded pen, he scribbled a message on the back of the last page, hurried and sloppy. Tuck almost advised him against it, but the young rookie rose to his feet and glanced about worriedly as he hurried off. The mail room was a decent walk away and Gunny Conners may be out there, so Tuck wordlessly wished him luck and turned his back.

 

 

A couple dozen minutes passed before Abram was sneaking back into the Bunkhouse. Instead of heading directly for Bunk 510, the slight rookie slipped into Bunk 499. He pulled his feet tight against his body as he clenched in a bundle, the thin blankets falling over him with little grace. Grim's warmth was already waning. Abram tucked his cheek to the pillow anyway, inconsolable but willful as he tried imagining the event had never happened.

 

They would notice Grim's absence, however, no matter how much they ignored it.

 

 

 

 

 

Dick Simmons looked up from his task as a man approached the front gate with a bundle of papers in hand, a messenger bag at his hip. Taking his hands from the dirt, Simmons pulled the thick gloves from his hands, leaving them atop the tended soil of the flowerbed and met the man halfway. As usual, they exchanged common greetings and letters were handed over. One more thing, the mailman claimed, reaching into his bag. At the peek of a manila folder a letter was snatched up (the flash of color set Simmons on edge easier than anything he'd seen in the past dozen years) and, after the address was double checked, was left in Simmons' hands. The envelope, bearing the star and eagle of the Spartan program, was the standard olive green shade Simmons had seen as he delivered Command's directions to Sarge. Thanking the man, Simmons hurried back up the flagstone path to his house, eyes entirely on the written address that was not done in Grim's hand.

 

Dexter looked up in worry as Simmons bypassed him in the living room. The doors had been left wide open, a particular subject of nagging Simmons enjoyed; to just leave them open  _himself_ spelled 'something is wrong'. Taking the time to close both, Dexter followed the path his husband had taken and found him hunched over on the bed, sunlight spilling over the rumpled bedsheets and Simmons' own distressed features. Having never enjoyed Simmons' crying, Dexter crawled slowly over the large mattress and joined his husband. Tanned hands held fast to arms both organic and mecha as Dexter peered over Simmons' shoulder, his chest to Simmon's back. Dexter's lax nature seeped into Simmons' with time, the both of them watching the Spartan letter, stark against the white sheaf of bills and notices. 

 

"It'll be alright," he whispered softly against the shell of Simmons' ear, reaching past him and plucking up the letter. Simmons' moved as if to stop him, but Grif held firm. "He's fine," Dexter assured, prying open the seal as he spoke, "It's all alright."

 

Simmons' sigh of relief was a half-choked sob and shudder as Grif shook loose -- not an official letter with typed message and sharp creases -- but a pile of lined paper, written in their son's scrawling font and folded sloppily. Simmons' snatched the bundle up immediately, unfolding the lot and shakily reading aloud. Grif watched with calm interest as Simmons recounted Grim's adventures in training, the life he hoped to lead, and events current as of the time of writing. There was plenty to hear about Tuck and Abram, the skills the three of them were learning, and stories of time in the holodeck. 

 

"Things are going well, I swear," Simmons said, tone warbling, "I have only two more augments to take before I'm graduation-ready. It all depends on me now." He paused, smiling warmly. "I know it takes a month before things get Home and it'll be another month before you guys can write to Base, but write back soon. I'll try to keep up a steady stream of letters coming your way from now on. Sorry it took this long for me to realize that leaving you in the dark probably wasn't the best way to go about this."

 

"You think?" Grif replied comically, weeding a bigger grin out of Simmons.

 

"Love and Forever, Grim, soon to be Private Grif-Simmons."

 

 

Grif pulled the letter closer, reading the post script for himself. "P.S -- send chocolate." 

 

"He is his father's kid," Simmons said with a chuckle, turning the papers over. A habit of sorts, as Grim had always included small sketches and drawings (though not always recognizable or very good) on the back. Each were labeled: 'The Holodeck 04' with a very heavily shaded room, an Aqua figure in the corner labeled with an arrow and the name 'Tuck', something that resembled a tray of food, a very crude sketch of this Makoa girl Grim had rivaled, and a note written in the same neat handwriting as the envelope. 

 

 

 

_Simmons and Grif_

_Grim may not have much to write back. They picked him up for his next augment just before he could mail this off. He left it for me to do. It takes a while to heal from these, as I'm sure you know. Tuck and I will make sure he pulls through it, don't worry._

_Wishing you well,_

_ Abram J. Church _

 

 

Simmons' brow creased, a look of concern overcoming him. Grif's hand rubbed his arm firmly in attempts to ground any wandering thoughts. "This was last month," he said simply, kissing the redhead's cheek, "I'm sure he's healing up well."

 

Simmons didn't look convinced, but nodded anyway.


	6. On an Island in the Sun

The crashing of waves could be heard from his bedroom window. It hung open in the midmorning sun, letting beams of light plaster themselves to the walls and warm the floorboards. The evidence of his existence slowly illuminated in the forms of touched upon hobbies: a telescope left folded and leaning into a corner by the windowsill, hiking boots kicked aside on the bench below, and a handful of carefully crafted model airplanes swaying on their strings above. Used clothes swathed the floor. They hung from cracked wicker chairs and over the folding door of a closet. They heaped in a hammock made of sailcloth, and under them lay he.

 

Grim shifted under the weight and warmth of his garments, woken not by the squeaking of his desk fan or the voice crackling over the portable radio. Light had touched his face like a mother and woke him as a son, with gentle warmth and insistence. The beaches called him. The waves beckoned. 

 

His feet swung out with hardly a rocking of the hammock and touched the ground experimentally. The chill of night had not yet left. The waves could warm up for another hour, he surmised, rising with a yawn. His half-dressed body was swathed in dawn's light, as natural as nature allowed.

 

The clatter of kitchenware called him almost as much as the sea did. From the pile of his bed, Grim lifted a flannel button up and shrugged it on loosely, not caring to fiddle with clasps. He could imagine it now. Dad at the counter, no doubt making some form of morning family meal. The less burnt, the happier he'd be. Dad would probably be in front of the television again, caught somewhere between reruns and assisting with breakfast. The whole affair didn't sound so bad. Grim picked up his portable radio in passing, half-listening as the weather was reported. He left the bedroom.

 

 

 

And woke up.

 

Panic rose like instinct, unable to see and struggling at a weight around his wrists. The pain was back at full force. It hurt to think. His eyes felt on fire. The sound of florescent lighting reminded him of the night and things were made a little clearer. Augmentations, the medical ward...Grim began to relax. The humming of artificial light continued ceaselessly in his ears and training, or what he had of it, began to kick in. Remain calm, Grim told himself, collect data. 

 

The sheets over him were light and airy. Hands and legs were all bound in what he could only imagine to be padded cuffs. Two other living, breathing soldiers were at either side of him. One, at his left, breathed sharply and occasional made movement; in pain and uncomfortable, no doubt. To his right, someone slept on, breathing far too evenly for anything otherwise. The medical bay around him was riddled with small sounds of life and motion. For now, he relaxed.

 

"I know they hurt," a female voice said somewhere to his left. A specialized pillow kept him from turning toward the sound, but she was nearby. "You don't have to act all tough. They'll give you what little they have but it never works entirely. Take as much as you can." She paused heavily between statements, still struggling to cope and easing out of medicated bliss.

 

"What are you in for?" Grim groaned out, voice hoarse with lack of use.

 

"Fibrification of Neural Dendrites," she replied coolly.

 

"The Superconducting," he concluded, remembering his own. The risk of Parkinson's was high for such a procedure, among other byproducts and side effects. Unusual bleeding of the eyes and ears, for example, tinnitus, short term memory loss, and death. Seemed a heavy price to pay for intelligence and reflexes. Plenty had gone through it. Plenty had died on the table, shortly there after, or were so affected that drop-out was inevitable. There were those who lived, though. Sometimes.

 

Sounds of the medical bay were reaching him as their words faded. Past the female voice, he could hear the labored breathing of the other patient, no doubt sent for augmentations of their own. The faint beeping of monitors, the scuffling of footsteps as they walked by... Grim wouldn't know the world around him until he could open his eyes again. No doubt it would be quite a while...

 

 

Makoa smirked from her bed, watching as Grim's fingers flexed with uncomfortable stillness. The nerves along her spine were on fire, but she was in the same situation as her rival, strapped down to the mattress as not to harm herself. The blindfold over Grim's eyes protected him, and in its own way, her as well. All for the best.

 

Grim sighed. It would be a long recovery...


	7. King for a Day

The tree would forever be a foreboding figurehead in Abram's mind. He could go back, even now, to those dark woodlands and find the tree standing like a pillar of irrefutable power as it dominated the riverbank. It stood out from the scattered grove as a brilliant Black Gum tree, scarred and pocked at the base from youthful feet trying to grab the scaly bark for a foothold. A single limb grew out over the river. The tree was a giant of Abram's childhood. Like David, Abram was prepared to slay it.

 

 

The tree was a tremendous old thing, irate and gnarled of bark. A rational child would hardly think to conquer such a steeple. No one but Abram would think up such a crazy idea. When there was a depth to the river, the overclothes would come off and Abram would work his way to the upper branch that grew so perfectly toward the water. In his mind, the climb was forever and the bark never seemed to hold his weight no matter where his feet were pressed. The branch would be under him and sway before Abram's body sprang out, fell through the lower branches of neighboring hemlocks, and smash into the cool water. His legs would hit the soft mud below and suddenly Abram was at the surface again. The summer was hot. He had to go again.

 

He started climbing to the limb high over the bank. It wasn't hard to shuffle along it, but Abram grabbed at a thinner branch nearby for support. The leaves shook under the weight of his dripping body. At that moment, he looked back. The Pennsylvanian wood had always been so different than the faint memories of Blood Gulch Abram had. The green sweep of field that had been his play yard shone in the last long rays of sunlight. Those beams swept low over every slight hillock of the land, cutting through the decorative shrubs. His interest beginning to wane, Abram's foot moved as if to jolt back to the waters and he met air. His balance was disturbed and the slight branch was ripped from his hand as gravity took hold, his body tumbling sideways. Abram caught nothing but hemlock branches on the way down and landed with an unnatural thud along the bank. 

  
To this day, Abram wasn't sure if he imagined watching the sun set from his resting place or if he'd imagined it in some tranquil bliss of unconsciousness. Whatever the case, it'd been the most beautiful he'd ever seen.

 

 

 

"It's a messy break," Abram said with grim sureness, looking over his mentor's latest patient. The hand in question was just shy of mutilated, the bones within twisted and blackening the skin. Abram's mentor nodded, following the clear explanation and gentle motions to each injury in particular. On his clipboard, he wrote each down, questioning his own protege's conclusion and asking possible treatment options while the patient grit his teeth in pain. 

 

Theses situations Abram saw as training. He'd be seeing worse on the forefront of battle. H.M Dunn had prepared him for as much, being a mentor with plenty of prior students. He saw Abram as a squire. It had been a long while of arduous tasks and studying before Abram even had the chance to examine a patient. Even then, it was small cases, sometimes even trick diagnosis. But Abram had endured and now practiced alongside H.M Dunn. 

 

Releasing the poor recruit's broken hand, Abram felt the instant need to sanitize his hands, a lesson ingrained in him from training. "If it suits you," he said, "may I pay a visit to the Recovery Bay? My friend..."

 

H.M Dunn nodded without even looking up from his clipboard. "Yes, your friend; the one with the new augments?" Abram nodded, trying not to seem too enthusiastic about seeing Grim for the first time in two months. The nurses had been promising and promising... 

 

"Yes, uh," H.M Dunn paused as he set his notes aside and took up his patient's hand once more. "But first, we finish our work here, yes? I'd hate to see a young man lose such a fine hand." As the aging man looked at the skin texture, the rookie glanced to Abram in panic. He found no reassurance, though. The apprentice was already crouching over his patient like a problem to be solved with little outward sympathy.

 

 

 

Mom had carried him all the way home, caked in a fine layer of soft mud and silt. His legs were on fire. Every jounce had him cringing in that strange warm half-sleep. Mom was yelling. Maybe screaming, even. It was hard to tell through the bleary sense of consciousness. And he heard the name on each outburst, every one more desperate than the last. Church, Church, Church... 

 

Father was leaning over him. Hands grabbed and Abram's body was entirely compliant. 'A messy break,' he heard Father say. 'Jesus, Caboose, the bone is through his skin...'

 

 

Later, while surgically removing the young rookie's right hand on Dunn's orders ('There's no way it can be saved and remain functional. Chop it. Let him get a replacement from the robotics ward and a fancy medal for his duty to Earth.') Abram could feel his legs itch terribly in twelve places. 


End file.
